10:19 a.m. - 2013-08-22
stay
I have discovered that there is nothing I want more than to be lying in bed with her head on my chest, tucked under my chin, just holding her. I stoke her hair, like I stoke my daughter's hair, and rub her back. She is so tough and efficient and unemotional most of the time -- all the time except in the bedroom when the door is closed -- and I love when she is secretly soft and needy.
I love her.
I love her.
I love her.
I shouldn't have, but I promised her I'll never leave her. I shoudn't have because if there's one thing I've learned in 34 years, it's that "I'll never leave you" is a promise no one keeps.
I said it and now I have to keep it. That's OK because I've aready promised her in my head, a thousand times. I've promised her, in my head, that I won't hurt her. That I won't stop seeing her, and telling her she's beautiful. That I'll never forget that if you don't raise your voice and you don't argue and you don't express things in strong words or words at all, it doesn't mean you don't feel. I have made her 100 promises in my head, and I intend on keeping all of them. I just don't say them out loud.
Except that one. Oops.
It's not just how I feel about her right now; it's that after 34 years, I know me. I know that I don't change my mind about people. I know that I don't stop loving people. People don't stay, but I do.
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